


mud

by sulkstiel (seriousface)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, M/M, PWP, dean/cas - Freeform, seriously it's just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seriousface/pseuds/sulkstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean does his damnedest to make Cas passable as a mud-monkey. Because sex with an angel makes you notice your own sweat and bad breath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mud

**Author's Note:**

> Super quick, shameless pwp because every other fic I'm writing is refusing to get to the porn. :P  
> Sort of ambiguous point of view. It's not really intended as second person. I've got no idea what to do with it. Changing it to third just destroys the pronouns.

Fucking an angel makes a mud-monkey worth its mud.

He doesn't break into a sweat when you slide your hand between his waistband and the shirt tucked into it. The flush of blood is there, but his shirt won't stick to his chest and his brow won't shine. You can't smell his neck when you dig kisses beneath his chin, you can't smell his hair. Soap or oil, all you smell is dirt or smoke or nothing. When you kiss his mouth, you can't taste toothpaste or his last meal or halitosis, because he's involved with none of the above. The only taste is your own beer breath panted back at you, your own stale something saliva, and it's all you can do to keep from biting for a taste of someone else's blood.

The trenchcoat you shove off his shoulders smells like nothing. Smells like you. He's tugged your layers off, with their pitstains and the sweat-and-deodorant smell over so many cycles of cheap laundry detergent and blood and dirt, and you've got his pristine white buttons between your fingers, collar stiff as the day his vessel put it on. The hair under his arms is warm and unknowable when you graze past it to count his ribs with your dirty liquor tongue. Curling your head to reach dry, flushed skin you catch a whiff of your own unshowered self, of the pungent bitterness where your deodorant has sweated off.

There's no sour milk smell between his toes. They taste like nothing in your mouth, and when you leave them stark for the cool air to bite at, you leave them dirtier than they were to start. The backs of your knees are damp with sweat, the crooks of your elbows, but his aren't. His aren't, and every sweep you make over his body with your clammy hands leaves him human-scented, human-seasoned.

Dicks aren't supposed to taste like anything, dicks are supposed to taste like skin. This you tell yourself, with your lips wrapped around the bright head of his cock, but the hair at the base still smells like nothing. That dark triangle you're dipping your nose into is odourless, synthetic fur.

The precome is a godsend. Finally something other than stale beer, something other than yourself. That and the faint scent of lube smacking between your fingers. God, he's warm. Warm and clean with fingers scissoring him open, fluid popping at the movement. His dry hands are slipping over your own damp arms and his mouth, his mouth is screaming to be love-bitten, to be stretched and rouged like your own post-fellatory lips. So you re-position and oblige.

Buried shaft deep, you can hear his exertion, but you can't smell it. You can hum back to his fevered grunts, the catches in his breath and the broken exclamations of your name. You can hiss when his fingers clamp too tight, angel strong, into the ghost of the shoulder scar where he first touched you. Buried shaft deep, he isn't sweating, but he's rocking below you and he's hard against his stomach and you're making him human anyway. When his feet curl up around your hips to drive you deeper, the pressure is verging on too strong, angel strong, but he's weak at the knees and he's stealing stunted breaths in anticipation - of humanness, of consummation.

The sweat drops on his chest aren't his own, but the blood pumping inside it is.

And if you wait a while, if you work and pull the keening murmurs from his throat and grind the angel out of him, that stringy splatter webbing his chest to yours, that'll be his too.

With your own mud-monkey stain marking him between the legs as human, you'll turn your attention to the taste of him, to the jagged white trail from his cock to his chin. Until it's gone and his stomach is stale liquor saliva and he's masked with your mud-monkey scent.


End file.
